Silly old bear. If the harbinger of spring is the sound of a bat on a ball, then I have become the harbinger of winter: a barren and desolate spot that your bat will never hit. As my ball strikes the padded glove with the disgruntled furl of thirty thousand fans trudging out of the arena, watching as you throw down your bat in disgust and mourn what you'll never be, know this: you will NEVER defeat me, Pooh Bear. Not as long as you or I will live. They will never tell stories of your greatness or herald you as the second coming of Pitch Hittus.
There are 108 stitches in every ball, Pooh Bear. How many do you think I
can get on your face? Hahaha... Silly old bear... Silly old bear...

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